The Accused, page 31
‘Spotted a little place down in the village as I drove through this morning,’ said Nathan, who was packing his camera away in its padded box. ‘Should be open by now, hopefully. By the way, I meant to ask ... is somebody going to tell Clare Henderson in New York that she has another daughter? A daughter she never knew existed? That’s going to be one tricky conversation, isn’t it?’
‘It’s going to be a massive shock to her, yes. But yes, I’ve sorted it. Joel from the adoption agency is asking his detective friend Kymani to go round to Clare’s yet again, and break the news. We thought we should wait until we see if Miranda’s going to be charged first though. Don’t want to get her hopes up about a new daughter if that new daughter’s going straight to jail. And I’ll try to call her myself too, at some point over the next few days. I still have her neighbour’s phone number.’
‘But isn’t Clare going to go to the police as soon as she finds out? I would, if I was told somebody had stolen my baby thirty odd years ago. Isn’t it all going to come out?’
Scott, rolling cable back onto a drum, wiped a film of sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his striped shirt. It was shaping up to be a glorious day. Behind their parked vehicles, a field of linseed glowed blue in the morning sunshine, and the sky was clear and cloudless.
‘I’ve thought about that, yes. But maybe that’s what should happen, Scott. I never made Ana Taylor any promises. But I haven’t gone to the police with the story myself, or mentioned it to Adam, not yet. It’s just us, our little group, who know, and I know there are mixed views about what should be done, but I’m grateful you’ve all agreed to let me make the decision. And for now, I’ve decided that I personally am not going to report her. Yes, what they did back then was shocking, unethical, illegal, wrong in every possible way. But it’s true, if Clare Henderson had been presented with an extra baby she would probably have just abandoned two instead of one. Miranda would have ended up being adopted anyway. Would it have made that much difference, in the end? If Clare decides to report Ana and the clinic, once she knows what happened, that’s up to her.’
‘Fair enough. Wish the cops would hurry up now though. Sam or Miranda? One of them’s going down by the sound of it. Bloody hope they get the right one.’
Scott stomped off back to the truck, and Cora, Rodney and Nathan exchanged glances. It was such a dreadful situation, Cora thought. Sam, their dear, dear friend. And Miranda, the new girl at work who everyone had liked so much and who had shown so much promise as both a TV personality and as a medic. How was it possible that one of them was a murderer?
Lost in thought, Cora jumped as a phone started ringing.
‘It’s yours, numpty. There, look, you left it on the roof of my car.’
‘Oh.’ Cora reached for the phone, not looking at the display, and hit the button.
‘Hi – Cora speaking.’
‘Hello? Cora. Cora, it’s me.’ The voice was achingly familiar, and slightly shaky, as if the speaker was on the verge of tears.
‘SAM? Sam, darling, what’s wrong? Are you OK?’
‘I am OK, yes. I’ve been released, Cora. All charges have been dropped. I’m coming home.’
55
In her corner office, Betsy Allan put her phone down with a trembling hand. She could almost feel the relief flooding through her veins, like an actual physical sensation. The phone call from DCI Bradberry had horrified her in one way – her new star, Miranda Evans, had been charged with Marcus’s murder, and there would be a lot to deal with in the coming months, a wave of press interest, damaging stories in the papers. But she could handle that. She could handle anything, now. Oh, the liberation, the massive weight that had been lifted from her shoulders in the space of a single minute. Sam, her top producer, was coming back too, exonerated. What a day. What a bloody amazing day.
From the day that Marcus had been murdered, Betsy’s anxiety levels had gone through the roof. She was a friend of his, and the police had looked at everyone he knew, in those first few days. And she’d been scared, so scared, that she would be implicated. It had been so many years ago now since Betsy had had her own run-in with the police, been arrested, locked up, questioned and ultimately charged with serious assault. So many years, but still so fresh in her mind, so painful. And she’d been guilty too. She’d attacked him with her own stiletto shoe, the man who’d tried to rape her. Attacked him with the sharp, pointed heel, stabbed him in the chest and neck, hurt him badly. And then, because it had been her word against his, because she’d had no injuries, and he was in a bad way, hospitalised, it was her who was charged. Not him. He got away scot-free, walked out of court laughing as she was handed a suspended sentence. He didn’t laugh for long though. The idiot went and tried it again, didn’t he? Tried to rape another woman, in exactly the same way as Betsy had described to the police. And this time, there was a CCTV camera in the alleyway he’d followed his victim down, and so this time it wasn’t just her word against his, and he finally got what he deserved. Betsy’s lawyers tried to appeal then, appeal against her assault conviction, but the judge decided he still wasn’t sure about what had happened in Betsy’s case, so the conviction should stand. But Betsy’s boss believed her, let her stay in her job, gave her a glowing reference when she moved on, even helped her explain her criminal conviction to her new employer. And so it had continued, from job to job, Betsy’s talent and drive taking her upwards, overshadowing her crime. She’d almost been able to forget it, until then. Until that dreadful day in May, when her friend Marcus died.
When Marcus was killed, Betsy didn’t know that her background had never been looked into by the police investigating the murder ... she was never a suspect, so why would they have done that? But she didn’t know, so she worried, worried herself sick, worried that now, as she had just settled in to the best and most high profile job of her career, that it was all going to come out, that her past would be splashed all over the papers, that she’d lose the respect of her staff and peers, that it would all come to an end. And now it was all over. She was safe, she was fine, and Sam was free.
Betsy threw back her head, and laughed out loud.
It had been on the lunchtime news. Samantha Tindall, the bitch TV producer who had stolen Marcus from her, had been released, and somebody else had been charged with his murder. Katie Chamberlain sat in a chair in the staff room at the rear of the salon and stared blankly at the screen. She’d switched the television off five minutes ago, but still she sat, remote control in hand, staring. Staring, and thinking. She had thought the bitch had got what she deserved, and now she was out and free. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair at all. Although, of course, Katie had punished her anyway, more than once. It’s just that prison had been a better, much better punishment than anything Katie could have done.
It had been fun, though. There’d been many times that she had spat in Sam’s tea before getting an innocent junior to carry it out to her. Many times. And how she’d enjoyed standing on the other side of the salon, watching, as an oblivious Sam happily swallowed the tainted drink. Once, she even slipped a slice of mouldy meat into the salad sandwich the bitch had ordered. The taste must have been disguised by the tomatoes and mayo she’d layered on top of it, because the stupid cow swallowed that too, every last bite. Katie prayed that she’d be violently ill later, imagined her throwing up, clutching her stomach in agony. Oh yes, she got punished all right. Remember that deep scratch down the side of your car, when you parked it down the road while you had your hair done, little miss TV producer? The one you blamed on those kids on skateboards? That was me. Remember when somebody accidentally spilled bleach on your new leather jacket, when you left it draped over the back of a chair in the salon when you went off for a shampoo? That was me too, not the Saturday girl who got the blame. And then, when you were arrested for his murder? Well, you certainly got what you deserved then, didn’t you? Bitch. Stuck-up, murdering bitch. Except ...
Katie put the remote control down on the table. Except you didn’t do it, then. Somebody else did. I really, really thought you’d done it. I think your friend thought you’d done it too, you know, when she came to see me. She didn’t tell me she was your friend, of course, but I knew. You’d talked about her in here, hadn’t you, Cora this and Cora that? So I knew. I enjoyed slagging you off to her, and she just had to sit there and listen. It was fun. She was stupid, and you were stupid too. You might have fancy pants jobs, and I’m just a hairdresser, but I’m cleverer than both of you. But you didn’t kill Marcus. While I was in hospital, unable to save him, somebody killed him. Not you though, in the end. Well, fine. But you’d better not come back here again, wanting a haircut. Stay away from me. You still stole Marcus from me. You’re still a bitch. Maybe not a murdering bitch, but still a bitch ...
‘Katie! Your two o’clock’s here!’ A cheerful voice interrupted her thoughts.
‘Coming!’ She stood up, cast a final, baleful look at the TV screen, and went to greet her client.
David Cash had seen the lunchtime news too. He was working from home today, but had stopped for a cup of coffee and a sandwich, which he’d enjoyed in the garden with his dog. The sun was shining, and Doug was being particularly entertaining today, racing up and down like a crazy thing, and all in all it was a very pleasant lunch break. He’d gone back inside though, to watch the headlines, and had been shocked to hear that somebody new was now in the frame for the murder of the man in the park, and that Samantha Tindall had been released without charge. He turned the TV off and went back upstairs to his office, but his mind was no longer on his work. He eased the little key out of its hiding place, opened the desk drawer and pulled out his newest scrapbook, the one filled with cuttings about Sam. He’d have to buy a newspaper tomorrow, make sure he added the new cutting, because this was bound to make the papers. Maybe there’d be a new photo of her too. That would be nice.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he should try to stop this – try to stop collecting, try to stop stalking them on the web. Because this wasn’t his only scrapbook, of course. There were lots, in this nice deep drawer that Sue never looked in, because he’d told her he’d lost the key years ago, and it didn’t matter because it was empty anyway. There were lots in there. Fourteen, fifteen? He’d lost count. One for every ex-girlfriend he’d ever had though. Because he didn’t like to let them go, not really. So he kept hold of them. They didn’t know of course. Didn’t know he was Googling them, stalking their Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn pages, printing off photos they put online, pasting them into his books. Keeping an eye on them, for months, years, after they had long forgotten him. Sometimes, when they were stupid enough to say on social media that they were going to a certain bar or restaurant that night, he’d even turn up, watch them from a distance, see how they looked, who they were with. He never approached them though. Well, not any more. Not after the restraining order. That had scared him a bit. He didn’t want Sue finding out about it. She’d caught him with some newspaper cuttings once, when one of his exes was in the papers after winning a decent sum on the Lottery, and he’d had to make up some silly excuse, say the woman was related to a workmate and the cuttings were for him. She’d been suspicious, though. That’s why he’d been so relieved that she hadn’t been there when those two TV women came round here, asking questions. He liked Sue, really liked her. He’d loved the holiday they’d had together, the holiday they were on when Marcus was murdered and Sam was arrested. It had been wonderful, so romantic, and when he’d returned he’d considered burning all the scrapbooks. Did he really need them any more? Then he’d changed his mind. He’d hang on to them, just for a little while longer. And he mustn’t forget to buy that newspaper tomorrow.
David took a last, lingering look at Sam’s photograph on the most recent cutting then gently shut the book, slid it into the drawer and turned the key.
56
Friday 28th June
The deadline
‘The dog. The frigging dog. Who would have thought it was the dog that would solve the case for us? You always did say you felt uneasy about not tracking down that third dog walker. You were right, eh?’
Glenn Arnold slapped Adam on the shoulder, and Adam punched him in the arm in return, then tried not to visibly wince as his knuckles encountered what felt like a steel barrel. Bloody hell, the man had muscles.
‘I was, although to be fair I never expected Miranda’s dog to come up trumps like that. Blood, Marcus Williams’ blood, on its collar!’
Adam sank down into his chair and stretched luxuriously. The relief was immense. He knew, knew for certain now, that they had the right killer in custody. Cora had been right about Sam’s innocence all along, and he now wondered if he should have taken her arguments more seriously over the past couple of months, trusted her instincts. And yet, the evidence against Sam had been so compelling. He smiled. He knew Cora understood, and their relationship was as strong as ever, her joy that the truth was finally out as overwhelming as his own.
Miranda Evans had admitted everything, and although he’d been sceptical initially, it turned out she hadn’t been lying. Hadn’t been overly observant either, luckily for us, thought Adam. Tiny splashes of Marcus’s blood had spattered onto Rupert the dog’s black leather collar as she had carried out the assault, and while that had gone unnoticed by Miranda, it had quickly been spotted by the police forensic team which had carried out an inch by inch search of her flat on Monday afternoon. Minute traces of blood had been found on her dark grey hall carpet too, and even on her nail brush. That, along with all the other evidence, plus her confession, had been more than enough for the CPS. Now, Miranda Evans had been charged with murder and Sam Tindall was home. And, to his immense relief, she wasn’t bearing a grudge either. When he’d seen her earlier, she had hugged him, tears in her eyes, and thanked him for all he’d done.
‘I don’t blame you, Adam, for thinking I’d done it. You were only doing your job, and going where the evidence took you. Hell, I’d have thought I’d done it too, faced with what you were faced with,’ she had said.
Adam leaned back in his chair and breathed a long, contented sigh. He had the weekend off, he had an extremely happy girlfriend, and tonight – well tonight, there would be one hell of a party. Just a final bit of paperwork to finish, and then he was out of here. Adam gave a little whoop, grinned at the amused glances from everyone around him, and got busy.
They’d taken over a large, private room at the rear of one of Cora’s favourite bars in Notting Hill. The manager had even managed to cobble some food together, despite the short notice, and a long table along one wall was covered with delicious-looking delicacies – salt and pepper squid, crispy fried anchovies, hummus and tortillas, lamb tikka and a huge bowl of strawberries with a chocolate fondue.
Above the table hung a long banner, decorated with images of fireworks, party poppers and smiley faces, and the words ‘Welcome Home Sam’.
‘Great job with the banner, Wendy,’ Cora said, admiring it.
‘Loads of people in the newsroom helped. But yes, it’s a nice one!’
‘Nicest banner I’ve ever seen.’
Cora and Wendy turned to see Sam standing behind them, clutching a glass of something pink and bubbly. She was glowing, hair freshly trimmed and blow-dried, make-up perfect, but there was still a hint of sadness in her eyes. Cora reached out and pulled her into a hug, and they stood there for a long moment. Then Sam wriggled out of her friend’s arms.
‘Enough soppiness. We’ve done all that. Let’s party!’
‘Are you OK though, really?’
Sam nodded. ‘I am. I mean, Marcus is still dead, and that’s going to take me a long time to get over. And prison ... well, that’s going to leave scars too. The fear, that awful, hopeless feeling, that dread that I was going to be locked up for ever for something I didn’t do ... I don’t know if I can ever explain how that felt. It was like living in a nightmare. And now, this is a bit like a dream. I can’t really believe it’s over.’
‘It is, though,’ said Wendy, delicately wiping a blob of hummus off her chin with the corner of a napkin. ‘And it’s all down to Cora.’
‘No, it was down to all of us. Everyone played a part. It wasn’t just me.’ Cora picked up her wine glass and took a sip. Gosh, it tasted so good tonight.
‘No, but you kept going, kept everyone at it, never gave up hope, and always believed in me, even when all the evidence pointed at me having done it. And it was you who found out about Miranda, in the end. I can’t thank you enough, Cora. I’ll never be able to thank you enough, all of you, but especially you. I’ll be grateful for this my whole life. I’ll never, ever forget what you’ve done for me.’
There were tears in Sam’s eyes now, and she reached for Cora’s hand, then put her glass down and held her other hand out to Wendy.
‘Love you both so much,’ she whispered.
‘Love you too,’ whispered Cora and Wendy in unison, and they all laughed.
‘Oi, what’s this love-in all about? Room for another one?’ Alice suddenly appeared at Sam’s shoulder, looking ridiculously glamorous as always in a white cat-suit and silver sandals, large platinum hoops swinging from her earlobes, her long blonde hair shimmering, glass-smooth.
They broke their little circle and pulled her in. She’d been a little hurt when they’d finally filled her in on what had been going on over the past few weeks, upset that she’d been left out, but she’d quickly recovered, declaring that as long as Sam was free, what did it matter? Everyone now knew the astounding truth, and while there were so many bizarre twists and turns in the story, the fact that Sam and Miranda were sisters was the one that most were still trying to get their heads around. When she’d arrived at the party earlier, and once the whoops and cheers of delight at her appearance had died down, Sam had made a little speech, partly to thank everyone for their role in freeing her, but also – as she wryly put it – ‘to stop me having to repeat myself a million times during the course of the evening.’
